


The Shorthand Of Emotion

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sherlock Plays the Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:03:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg can sometimes be just as perceptive as Sherlock, perhaps more so when it comes to people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shorthand Of Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> A random short inspired by a scene in Andrew Lane's novel, _Fire Storm_ , in which you can read as much into their relationship as you like.
> 
>  _Music is the shorthand of emotion_ – Leo Tolstoy.

The bow paused in its graceful glide over the violin’s strings, the final note fading to silence as Sherlock froze, staring at the man watching him from the doorway.

“Don’t stop.”

Contrary to his visitor’s request, Sherlock lowered the instrument. “What do you want, Lestrade?” he asked, just to make known his irritation at the interruption. His shrewd gaze swept over the Yarder and fixed upon the slim file he held in his hand, all displeasure instantly forgotten. “Are those the photographs I wanted?”

Hiding his disappointment, Greg nodded. “Yes. The photos of the Henderson scene, as requested. I’m not thrilled about it.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock muttered impatiently, motioning for Greg to bring the file across to his desk. Greg handed it over and was promptly disregarded as Sherlock absorbed himself with spreading the set of photographs across the desktop. Greg sank down onto the sofa, prepared for a wait. There was no way he was leaving the photos here with Sherlock. Chain of custody was one thing, leaving evidence in the hands of a member of the public most of his superiors and colleagues disliked was so far off the scale of professionalism he would be out on his arse before he could say ‘consulting detective’.

Sherlock was used to it, was quite happy to ignore Greg’s presence while he was engrossed in his study of the crime scene images. At least watching Sherlock work was never boring, the way he was able to study seemingly insignificant details and extrapolate hidden meanings that were invisible to everybody else. Even so, half an hour with a man squinting at photos as his only entertainment was quite enough and Greg grew bored, his gaze beginning a journey around the flat, finally alighting on Sherlock’s violin where it now lay in an armchair.

“It always surprises me, y’know.”

“What’s that?” Sherlock didn’t sound the slightest bit interested in what it was that was causing Greg such astonishment, and it was a wonder that he replied at all, even in a distracted mumble.

“That you can play that thing so well.” He nodded at the violin, a gesture missed by Sherlock who clearly saw no reason to give Greg his attention.

He nevertheless immediately deduced what Greg was referring to and responded without glancing up. “Why should that surprise you? It’s merely a case of playing the sequence of notes written on the score.” He sketched a gesture towards a pile of sheet music heaped beside the music stand. “It’s a simple code, easy to decipher.”

“But it isn’t that easy, is it? There’s more to it than that.” Sherlock at least did him the favour of looking up, although it was with an expression of exasperation at Greg’s insistence upon having this conversation. Not to be dissuaded, Greg continued to expand on his thoughts, believing he was on to something, something he had never taken time to reflect on before. “Anyone can follow instructions. It’s how you interpret them, bring them to life.”

“I hadn’t realised you are such a connoisseur of music,” Sherlock drawled with a hefty injection of sarcasm.

Greg ignored him, persisted. “That’s why I like hearing you play. You can’t be all clinically detached and scientific about it. You put emotion in the music, you put _yourself_ in the music.”

Sherlock was staring at him, something unreadable glittering within those pale, perceptive eyes. Greg couldn’t guess what was going on inside that brilliant brain, but he had the distinct feeling that he had somehow struck a chord. Then he detected what he believed to be an element of fear. He had inadvertently stumbled upon perhaps the only way Sherlock ever openly expressed emotion, and that obviously scared the man.

It was no surprise when, moments later, the shutters descended once again. Sherlock’s expression was back to its usual impassive mask.

“You should stick to police work, Lestrade.”

It was a quip made purely for self-defence, and Greg took no offence. There was a compliment in there somewhere, but Greg was too busy kicking himself to appreciate it. He had never intended to leave Sherlock feeling vulnerable, and he fully expected to spend the remainder of this visit the subject of Sherlock’s formidable variety of silent treatment.

Which was why he was surprised when, just a couple of minutes later, Sherlock spoke.

“I’ll need to study these in more detail.” His gaze was once again firmly affixed to the spread of photographs, but it was clearly Greg he was addressing. “Would you like some tea while you wait?”

Greg blinked, nonplussed by the unexpected show of civility. “Yeah. Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.”

“No sugar in mine.”

With Sherlock’s face obscured by the angle, Greg could only gape at the mess of dark curls on top of his head. He opened his mouth to make a retort but thought better of it; there was no point wasting his breath. He settled for rolling his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet and went to navigate the minefield of laboratory equipment scattered haphazardly around the kitchen worktops.

At least by having something with which to occupy himself, Greg could avoid alienating Sherlock further. Trying to maintain any kind of relationship with the sod was hard work. Sherlock didn’t make it easy, but Greg was nothing if not stubborn.

He search for tea-making equipment eventually yielded results, but as he scooped a heaped teaspoon of sugar into what would be his own cup, his hand stilled. The sound of the violin reached his ears, filling the flat once more.

Greg stood there, transfixed, as the notes wove around him. He had no idea what the piece was, but that didn’t matter. What gave him pause was not only the fact that Sherlock had chosen to play, but that he was playing for _him_. Sherlock would never admit it, and Greg knew better than to mention it, but he would enjoy being granted this rare glimpse into Sherlock’s soul.


End file.
